


Jus In Bello

by MissBegottenLit (SoulTinkerer)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Power, Blackmail, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, I'm Going to Hell, Just horrible homophobia in general, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Blame, So many war crimes, Some H/C might be peppered throughout, Verbal Abuse, Victim Blaming, World War II, military sexual assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulTinkerer/pseuds/MissBegottenLit
Summary: The Just War Theory is a set of rules for military combat, providing guidance on moral conduct before, during, and after battle.But, as Bucky Barnes quickly learns, some people don’t give a damn about rules.





	1. Authority

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags/warnings. This fic is going to have as much Bucky-whump as I can smash in, since he has the dubious honor of being my very favorite woobie in the whole wide world. A lot of this was inspired by a number of different prompts from the Hydra Trash Party meme that I saved for a rainy day. Blanket warning for graphic non-con of various types. 
> 
> Also if anyone notices something that should be warned about/tagged that I missed, please let me know. By the end there are going to be a lot…
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

_We cannot have a genuine process of judging a just war within a system that represses the process of genuine justice. A just war must be initiated by a political authority within a political system that allows distinctions of justice._

* * *

The first time Bucky saw 2nd Lieutenant Harvey Bishop, he didn’t take much note of him. After all, on his first day at basic he was much more focused on not vomiting as they ran through the early fall snow at Camp McCoy.

He hadn't been impressed by the empty, flat fields of Wisconsin on the ride in, and he was even less impressed as he ran through them, feet slipping in the slush, newly issued boots rubbing blisters on his feet. His lungs burned and as a cramp threatened to seize his right leg, he thought to himself, _Thank God Steve isn't here._

He only felt a little bad about it, remembering the sullen, guilt-ridden look on his best friend's face when he came to say goodbye before Bucky left for basic. "I should be going with you," Steve had said, unwilling to accept that someone was giving more than him, the self-sacrificing little shit that he was. They'd trained together before enlisting, Bucky working him through some basic exercises at his old boxing gym, slowly building Steve up to the point where they felt he might pass a physical exam. In the back of his mind, Bucky had doubted the army would take Steve, but just because they were licked years before they began was no reason not to try. Besides, Bucky hadn't been able to stand the thought of crushing his pal's dreams, even with the truth.

At the moment, Bucky thought Steve was one lucky little punk. Even with the training, Buck was struggling, and if he was having a hard time, Steve would have been on the ground puking his guts up half an hour ago. He was no stranger to a pounding heart and burning lungs, but neither was their CO, and he seemed determined to turn his company into goddamn gazelles--or maybe reindeer, given the weather. By the time they circled back to camp, at least three men in front of Bucky had vomited, their sick mixing with the slush beneath their pounding boots.

Bucky kept his lunch, but just barely. When they reached the yard, First Lieutenant Snow stopped them, shouting at them to fall back into formation. They did, chests heaving, breath steaming in front of them.

“Better get used to winter, boys. Out here, I'm in my natural element,” Snow said, earning a few breathless chuckles. It was hard to like the man who'd just run them sick, but Bucky had a feeling Snow would pull it off somehow. Beside him was his XO, Lieutenant Bishop. He looked to be in his early thirties—practically ancient among the rank and file men in their late teens and early twenties. That was all Bucky noticed. He was a bit preoccupied with the snow melting in his hair and Snow’s orders of _report at 0500_ and _you can’t fight Nazis if you die of pneumonia._

They all shuffled off, their eagerness to dry off and get warm overpowering the watery trembling in their legs. Bucky found himself walking next to a small, mousy man. Jenkins, if he remembered correctly. The feeling that Steve called his “mother hen instinct” kicked in.

“Maybe tomorrow you just let me eat your lunch?” Bucky teased. “Save you the trouble of yucking it up later.”

Jenkins smiled good-naturedly. “I just might take you up on that,” he said.

The cramp that had been threatening to seize up his right leg finally landed. With a hiss and a hop he reached for the wall and tried to stretch it out.

“Here kid, on your back,” a voice said.

Before he knew it, he was on the floor. His right leg was piked up, held there by Bishop’s hands. His boxing coach used to help him stretch out cramps like this all time. Between the stretching and Bishop’s strong hands massaging the muscles, the cramp quickly abated and Bishop helped him back to his feet.

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky said.

“My pleasure, Private,” Bishop said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You need anything, you let me know.”

* * *

Life at Camp McCoy passed in the haze that frequently accompanies exhausting schedules. Before Bucky knew it, he’d been at basic for almost a month. But when he thought back on all they’d done and learned, he felt like he’d been living in C company’s dorm for decades. He’d done more pushups than he could count, run enough miles to get him to Brooklyn and back, and realized he had something of a superpower—he was a crack shot.

It had taken some training and refining. Bishop had been particularly interested in fostering this talent, always adjusting Bucky’s grip, stance, or breath. If Bishop’s hands lingered too long on his shoulders, if he stood too close behind him while Bucky aimed… Well, that was his job, wasn’t it? He was supposed to teach and coach. Any interest he showed in Bucky was purely professional. And if Bucky got a bit more attention from him than the others in C Company, he chalked it up to the fact that he had grown into the de-facto leader of the NCOs.

As the de-facto leader, he took it upon himself to make sure that his men not only gave their all during training but also gave their all during leave. Through methods that absolutely did not involve eavesdropping, Bucky learned that it was Jenkins’ twenty-second birthday. Maybe it was because Jenkins reminded him of Steve. Maybe it was because Jenkins had trouble bonding with the others in their company. Maybe it was because he was a mother hen who just found a chick.

Whatever the reason, Bucky took it upon himself to gather Jenkins and a few others with day passes. They made their way to the local watering hole. It wasn’t much more than a dive bar, but the booze was strong and the broads were friendly, so to the boys training at McCoy there wasn’t a better place in the world.

They were several drinks in and Jenkins was now firmly one of the boys when the sound of Bishop’s taciturn voice made them all jump.

“Having fun, boys?”

Jenkins inhaled a gulp of beer and started to cough. Bucky pounded him on the back, and when he looked up, he saw Bishop was grinning.

"Yessir," was the round of muttered replies. They weren't entirely sure whether they were in trouble or not.

"Today's my birthday," Jenkins slurred, raising his half-empty glass and sloshing beer onto the table.

"Is that so?" He eyed all the empties on their table and Bucky tugged self-consciously at his uniform shirt, aware that he was a rumpled, buzzed mess and a poor representation of the United States Army. Instead of reprimanding them or threatening them with extra PT, Bishop said, "How about I buy you all a round?"

Paulson whooped with glee and tottered on his stool. Jenkins burped and nodded absently. Inwardly, Bucky sighed. Time to be the mother-hen, he thought. "Thank you, sir, but I think we've had enough. Besides, Clark here has to report for duty at 0600 anyway."

Clark gave a sloppy salute. He'd report on time. He'd have a bitch of a hangover, but he'd be on time. He wouldn’t be the first or the last.

"One more round, on me," Bishop said. Bucky opened his mouth to protest again, but Bishop cut him off. "That's an order, Private."

The others gave a hoarse, raucous cheer as Bishop made his way to the bar. Bucky gave in to the inevitable, and when Bishop came back with their drinks, he cheersed along with the rest of them.

Bishop joined them at their table. Drinking with a superior officer felt innocently scandalous, like seeing a teacher outside of school. All Bucky could do was try to not make a fool of himself in front of the XO. He found it almost impossible. He'd been careful not to over-indulge, taking it upon himself to get his friends back to McCoy. He must have been closer to his limit than he thought, though, because the one beer from Bishop sent him tumbling over the edge.

When Jenkins fell off his stool, they decided to call it a night. It had started to snow while they were celebrating. The night was so still that Bucky could hear the heavy, wet flakes plop on the ground. A local man offered to give them a ride back to McCoy, so they all piled into the bed of his pickup and told dirty jokes until they rolled into camp.

Clark and Paulson were helping Jenkins make his way to bed, so when Bucky slipped and fell face-first into the snow, Bishop was the only one there to laugh.

“I do believe you’re drunk,” he said.

“I usually hold out better,” Bucky sighed as he wiped the slush from his face. He was having difficulty controlling his limbs, and he had to wait far too long for his thoughts to make their way through his brain. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten this drunk. Some time with Steve maybe?

“I never guessed you’d be a lightweight, Barnes,” Bishop said as he pulled him to his feet and slung his arm over his shoulders. They began to hobble along, the heavy, wet snow sticking to everything and soaking through their clothes.

“I’m a welterweight,” Bucky corrected.

“Is that so?”

“Three-time champ.” He jabbed out with his free hand. “Pow!” He entertained Bishop with slurred retellings of his best fights as they made their way inside.

In a daze, Bishop led him down a hallway and through a door.

Bucky flopped down onto a bed, letting his limbs fall where they may. As he blinked slowly up at the ceiling, he realized they weren’t in the barracks—or at least not in C Company’s dorm. This room was smaller, private. Bishop’s quarters then. Why was he here? Was Bishop just tired of carrying him and this was closer? He decided didn’t care. The room was warm and the bed was as soft as army beds came. He’d worry about it in the morning.

“You’re a mess, Private,” Bishop said. Bucky could hear the laughter in his voice. “Better get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.”

“Mmm,” Bucky hummed in amiable acquiescence, but when he tried to sit up all he managed to do was make Bishop laugh again.

“Here, I’ll help.” He felt Bishop’s hands on his soaked boots, pulling off one, then the other. They landed on the floor with a dull thud. His socks quickly followed, and then Bishop’s hands were on his belt. He was able to lift his hips when Bishop started tugging his pants down, but just barely. Bishop’s long fingers made quick work of the buttons on Bucky’s uniform shirt and together they managed to wrangle it and his soaked undershirt off him, leaving him in nothing but his shorts.

Suddenly aware of how cold he was, he cast about, trying to find the edges of the blanket so he could pull it over himself. He didn’t care if the wool scratched at his bare skin. He couldn’t get the blanket out from under himself, but Bishop procured a towel and began drying him off. Obeying Bishop’s nudging, he rolled over onto his stomach and began to drift.

“Stay still.” Bishop’s words barely cut through the fog. He hooked his fingers into the elastic band of Bucky’s undershorts and pulled them down. Buck decided not to worry about it. They were probably soaked too.

There was more toweling and when he was dry, the soft fabric was replaced by rough, callused hands. He was too tired to care. He was content to let Bishop rub warmth back into his muscles until those hands slid down to his ass and squeezed.

Bucky jerked back into full alertness and tried to twist away. “Wait, what’re you—”

“I said stay still, Private,” Bishop said, his voice sharp with authority.

Weeks of following orders and obeying the chain of command had engrained in Bucky the kind of disciplined obedience only soldiers knew. He forced himself to remain still on the bed, even though his heart was pounding and something sick and slimy was starting to squirm in his chest.

Bishop let go and withdrew for a moment. There were the sounds of someone rummaging through a drawer, and Bucky’s addled brain had just decided to move, orders be damned, when the bed dipped and something cool and wet slid down his crack. Bishop’s finger followed the trail and lingered on his hole.

Bucky managed to get his hands under him and push himself up—what were all those pushups for if not for this?—but Bishop knocked his arm down. His hand clamped down on the back of Bucky’s neck and pinned him down. “I gave you an order.”

Now Bucky was hopelessly lost. His brain felt as if it had been wrapped in cotton and any thought that came, came at a snail’s pace. He wanted to say stop, wanted just a moment to think about what exactly was happening, but the words didn’t come. His body had been trained to follow orders without question, and without instructions from his brain, it did just that.

Bishop’s finger slipped inside him. He hissed at the intrusion and Bishop leaned more weight on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the pillow and effectively muffling any noises he might make. 

After a few perfunctory thrusts, Bishop added a second finger. Bucky grit his teeth against the burning stretch. “I expected a pretty boy like you to be nice and loose,” Bishop said. The warm breath in his ear made Bucky shudder. “Relax, Barnes. Let me give you what you want.”

He would have shaken his head, but Bishop still had him pinned. He chose that moment to twist his fingers around and a groan punched out of Bucky’s chest as a searing, roiling pleasure washed over him.

Bishop chuckled in his ear and rubbed the spot again. “You might want to keep it down. Thin walls here. Someone might hear you. You wouldn’t want Snow to find out what a whore you are, would you?”

The possibility of Snow finding him drunk, naked, with another man’s fingers up his ass was enough to silence him, even as Bishop continued to slide his fingers in and out, massaging the tight muscles. To his horror, it wasn’t long until he felt himself growing hard. Bishop’s fingers edged closer to that sweet spot inside him but didn’t quite touch it, keeping the hot pleasure just out of Bucky’s reach. His hips bucked back of their own accord, searching for the stimulation.

“Such a desperate little slut,” Bishop said as he finally gave Bucky what he wanted and found the good place inside him again.

Bishop released the grip he had on his neck and reached around, his hand grasping Bucky’s hard and leaking cock. Shame, even hotter than the pleasure, washed over him. He couldn’t stop Bishop without causing a scene, and anyone who came to investigate would find him… like this.

“I guess you want me to fuck you now?” Bishop asked it as if it was an imposition. As if he’d be doing him a favor.

Bucky shook his head and gasped, “No.”

“You sure?” The hand on his cock squeezed tighter and slid up the shaft. “You wouldn’t be hard if you didn’t want it.”

He rubbed his face against the pillow and moaned. Between his dull, sleepy brain and hot, needy body he was unable to form coherent thoughts.

Bishop released his cock and withdrew his fingers. For a moment, relief washed over him. As soon as Bucky could get his limbs under control, he would leave. He could take care of himself in the privy and pretend none of this ever happened.

But the soft clinking sounds of Bishop unbuckling his belt made him tense up again. Strong hands grabbed his hips and pulled him up to his knees. He twisted in the grip and tried to protest, but Bishop gave him a stinging slap to his ass. “Just pretend I’m the last man you let fuck your ass.”

“There wasn’t…” The breath was ripped from his throat as Bishop forced his way inside him. The stretching and slick did little to ease the splitting pain as Bishop entered him inch by excruciating inch.

“There wasn’t one before me?” Bishop asked breathlessly. He was balls deep in Bucky now. “I find that hard to believe. A pretty little faggot like you doesn’t go unnoticed for long.” He began thrusting shallowly and the dull ache was punctuated with sparks of bright pain. His thrusts grew steadily deeper and more forceful, all while more filth spilled from his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re this pathetic, Barnes. You didn’t even have the common decency to jerk yourself off in the shower like everyone else? You’re lucky I’m the one you stumbled into bed with. Anyone else would have beaten you to a pulp and shipped what was left of you home in a box.”

It was about then that the pain of having Bishop inside him started to subside. His erection had flagged a bit with the pain, but now Bishop was hitting that sweet spot inside him with hard, purposeful thrusts. Before long, Bucky was once again hard and leaking.

Bishop’s hand found his cock and began to stroke it roughly, smearing the mess of precum. “Disgusting,” he panted, even as his fingers played across Bucky’s turgid flesh. “What would Jenkins think if he saw how filthy you really are?”

In Bucky’s mind, small, frail Jenkins morphed into Steve and his throat grew tight. He pressed his face into the mattress and continued to let Bishop fuck him. He refused to cry with another man’s cock inside him. He refused to picture the crestfallen look of revulsion on Steve’s face when he found out. Here was Bucky, exactly where Steve wanted to be, but he jeopardized his opportunity and for what? For a tumble in the sack with a superior officer? To be fucked through the mattress like a fairy?

He found himself begging silently. _Please, please let it be over soon. I won’t say a word, I won’t fuck another man ever again. Please let me come, let me sleep, I’m so close, so close, please finish soon, let it be over—_ Bishop’s thrusts began to lose their rhythm and devolve into mindless rutting. In the heat of the moment, he released Bucky’s cock to grip his hips with both hands and pull him back to meet his thrusts over and over again. The grip was tight enough to bruise, the thrusts hard enough to force weak whimpers out of Bucky, and yet despite his growing disgust for himself, Bucky found his cock with his hand and began to stroke himself in time with Bishop.

Between his desperate cries and the wet slap of flesh on flesh, he was amazed no one had heard them yet. He could feel his orgasm building, a tight knot of pleasure low in his gut.

“That’s it you little queer, come,” Bishop growled. “Come and show me how much you love you love my cock up your ass.”

A tingling wash of pleasure rushed over him. He pressed his face into the pillow to muffle his shout as he came, come spilling over his hand and smearing on the blanket beneath him. Bishop fucked him through the orgasm and then withdrew abruptly just in time to paint Bucky’s ass and back with his come.

They collapsed on the bed, both gasping for air. Bucky couldn’t stand Bishop’s weight on his back, his hot breath on his neck. When he wriggled to dislodge him, Bishop rolled to the side and shoved him off the bed. Bucky landed hard.

“Get out,” Bishop said, throwing his clothes at him in a wad. “I don’t share my bed with filth.”

Dazed, he pulled his pants on and stumbled to his feet. His limbs felt foreign to him and the cotton wrapped around his brain had only grown thicker. One word stood out to him: filth. He was filthy, covered with sweat and his come, slick and Bishop’s seed dribbled out of him as Bishop pushed him out of the room and slammed the door behind him. He needed to clean himself up before anyone saw him like this.

* * *

Bucky awoke to a shock of cold water. He spluttered and tried to wriggle out from under the spray. 

“You look even worse than I feel, Barnes,” a voice said. 

Bucky wiped the water from his eyes and looked up to see Clark standing over him grinning ruefully. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why. He was half-dressed and, thanks to Clark, half soaked on the floor of the showers where he had spent the night. He sat up, muscles and joints groaning in protest. His head was pounding, but the sharpest pain was in his ass.

All at once he remembered the feeling of Bishop on top of him. The combination of revulsion and a massive hangover made Bucky retch. Nothing came up. Vaguely he remembered being sick the night before. He was left to dry heave on the cold floor while Clark patted his back sympathetically. 

“All right, big guy, you’re all right.” Clark sounded like he was about to retch himself. “At least you don’t have duty this morning.”

“Better not be late,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

“You gonna be ok?”

Bucky waved him off. “Of course,” he said. He wanted Clark to leave him alone. He wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere and not think about anything. Instead, he pulled himself to his feet and tried to pull himself back together. 

He made it all day without throwing up again or completely losing his shit. One of the more valuable skills he’d learned at McCoy was compartmentalization. Are your arms turning to noodles? Pretend that pain doesn’t exist and do twenty more push-ups. Miss your family or your friend or your girl? Focus on the burning muscles, the strained breath, and soon you’ll be too exhausted to miss anything but your bed. 

So that’s what he did. He took the memory of what he had done and shoved it down into a box, refusing to think about it and choosing instead to focus on what was directly in front of him. By the time Snow dismissed them for the evening, he had almost convinced himself to forget the event entirely. But on his way to the mess hall, his eyes fell on Bishop. Goddamn, but he wanted to smack that smug grin off his face. He had witnessed Bucky’s lowest moment and seemed to enjoy it. This wasn’t something he could shove down and forget. Not with Bishop looming over him, leering at him. He had to put a stop to this now. 

After supper, he made his way to Bishop’s quarters, silently rehearsing the speech he’d been composing and stubbornly ignoring the roiling nerves in his chest. He knocked, and Bishop didn’t seem surprised when he opened the door to find Bucky standing there. 

“Private Barnes, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you, sir.”

“All right,” Bishop said. He stood in his doorway, waiting. 

“Can I—” he had to clear his throat. “Can I come in?”

There was that smug grin again. “Of course.”

The door had barely closed behind them when Bishop sidled up behind him. “Back again so soon? You _are_ a needy little slut, aren’t you?”

“No,” Bucky said, whirling around. “What happened last night…” He stumbled over his words, suddenly forgetting the tirade he had prepared. He had no context for what happened, no language to describe it. “I didn’t want it.”

Bishop smiled at that. “What? Are you saying it was rape? Are you a man or not?”

He wasn’t really in a position to mouth off, but he couldn’t help it. Sass was his default setting. “You got an up-close view last night, sir. What do you think?”

“You’re a man all right,” Bishop said, his voice low and dangerous. “And you are a little faggot whore. You can’t rape men or whores, so what’s the little faggot gonna do?”

“Report you,” Bucky said simply, working hard to not react to Bishop’s language. Of course, it wasn’t rape—that was something evil men did to dames after dragging them into dark alleys or breaking into their homes in the middle of the night—but that didn’t mean that he’d wanted it or enjoyed it. He sure as hell didn’t want it to happen again. 

All confidence he might have had in this interaction was shattered when Bishop threw his head back and laughed. “All I wanted was a willing body and a warm hole. You’re the sick fuck who came with a cock up his ass.” 

Bucky flushed at the memory. Even dulled by whatever Bishop had slipped him the night before, he had felt every instant of his climax. He couldn’t forget the bright, sparking pleasure that had coursed through him despite the pain of having Bishop inside him. Or maybe—no. No, it couldn’t have been _because_ of the pain… 

“That’s right,” Bishop said, grinning at the blush Bucky felt on his face. “Report it, and you know what you’ll get? A dishonorable discharge.”

_A dishonorable discharge._ He’d never be able to go home—he couldn’t see himself explaining to his father, who’d beamed so proudly with tears in his eyes when Bucky told him he’d enlisted, that he’d been discharged for having another man’s cock inside him. Forget his family. He’d never be able to look Steve in the eye again. Steve, who wanted nothing more than to be where Bucky was right now, who lied on enlistment forms and never stopped trying no matter how many times they told him no, would never forgive him. 

“We don’t let candy asses like you disgrace the uniform, not if we can route them out first. I’ve seen it before. I always know exactly who it’ll be, too. I can smell it on you.” He leaned in close and took a deep breath. Only Bucky’s pride—tattered as it was—kept him from flinching back. “I can see it in your pretty-boy face. It’s your mouth. A smart mouth with pouty lips is one made for sucking cock.” He reached out and brushed the tips of his fingers over Bucky’s lips. His pride broke and he flinched back, swatting his hand away in the process.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Why not? What are you going to do, strike a superior officer?” He grabbed Bucky’s jaw in one hand, fingers digging into his cheeks, and shoved him back against the wall, holding him there. 

Bucky brought his hands up, one of them clenched around Bishop’s wrist, the other holding a fistful of his shirt. He knew how to stop this. For months, Uncle Sam had been pouring money and resources into him, training him to fight, to defend himself, to kill. Bishop was older, more experienced, but Bucky had the explosive power of youth and, more importantly, desperation. Throwing him to the floor would be easy.

And yet, he held back. 

“There’ll be a report for that too, and questioning,” Bishop was saying, still talking about striking a superior officer. “They’ll want details, and I have plenty to give. How easily you spread your legs for me.” He leaned in closer, sliding his knee between Bucky’s thighs and grinding against him.“How hard you got from nothing more than my fingers up your ass.” Bishop was the only one hard right now. Bucky felt his eyes grow hot with tears of rage and humiliation. “The desperate noises you made when you came all over yourself.” He used his free hand to extricate the fist from his collar. Bucky let him, even though forcing his hand open was one of the hardest things he ever did. “What do you think?” Bishop asked, his voice quiet, his breath reeking of cigarettes and whiskey. “Do you think I should report those details, Private?”

“No,” Bucky said. It was nothing more than a harsh whisper.

“No, what?”

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “No, sir.”

Bishop hummed. “I’m not convinced.” 

He could stop this. _He could stop this_. But not without violence, not in a way that didn’t end in him being court-martialed or discharged.

“What are you willing to do, Barnes?” Bishop stepped back and began unbuckling his belt. “I can keep your dirty little secret, but I expect to get something in return.” His big, meaty hands clamped down on Bucky’s shoulders and pushed him to his knees. Bucky went without much struggle. “Why don’t you show me how a kid from Brooklyn sucks cock?”

“I’ve never…”

“I find that hard to believe,” Bishop said as he freed his cock from the confines of his trousers. The heavy, salty smell assaulted Bucky’s nose and he shook his head. Bishop’s hand fisted in his hair, holding him still as he brushed his cock against Bucky’s lips and cheek, spreading the precum that had begun to bead on the tip. “Open up now, and no teeth or I’ll drag you into the mess hall and show everyone what a faggot whore you are.”

It was a feat of monumental will that Bucky managed to open his mouth. Bishop shoved inside. The thick weight of his cock in the back of his throat made Bucky choke. Bishop pulled back for a moment, only to thrust back in, completely unconcerned with Bucky’s gagging. 

“You’re supposed to _suck_ , Barnes,” Bishop said, his voice tight with frustrated arousal. “What kind of a fairy are you if you don’t even know that?”

He wasn’t a fairy, he was a soldier. He had permission to fight, he had the power to kill, but what the hell use was any of that if he couldn’t even keep someone like Bishop from doing this to him? How was he supposed to fight Nazis when he didn’t even have the guts to stand his ground against the onslaught of an old man?

Bishop’s hands gripped his hair tighter and continued to fuck his mouth. He told himself the tears in his eyes were brought on by choking, not by shame, and he started to suck. 

The litany of self-recrimination distracted Bucky from the more visceral sensations and before he knew it, his mouth was filled with salty, bitter come. He swallowed it instinctively and Bishop laughed at him breathlessly. “You like that? Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty more where that came from.” He mussed Bucky’s hair even more than it already was and tilted his head back, forcing him to look up at him. “Clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.”

He tucked himself back into his pants and walked away, leaving Bucky on his knees, trying to swallow the rest of the bitter taste and fighting back tears. He couldn’t help but think that “disgrace” was far too kind a word. 


	2. Intention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have not abandoned this, I'm just a flake and struggle with telling people no when they need me to do something. :)  
> 2\. It is very late here, but I want to post this, so my sincerest apologies for mistakes/typos.  
> 3\. Blanket warning for graphic non-con bc I'm despicable.  
> 4\. TRIGGER WARNING for brief and slightly vague contemplations of suicide.

_If a war is to be just, it must be motivated by just intentions._

* * *

Pain and exhaustion were great distractors, not for Bucky, but for everyone else. It was a minor miracle, he thought, that none of the other men noticed he was white-knuckling life. They _did_ notice how he threw himself into training, how ferocious and intense his focus could be when a target was placed before him. It didn’t matter if that target was on the shooting range, the nearest hill they had to run up, or an opponent in hand-to-hand training, the same scowl of fiery concentration was on his face. He heard the mutters now and then.

“Barnes can be fucking scary sometimes…”

“Looks at you like he’s about to rip your throat out with his teeth…”

“Damn glad he’s on our side…”

It didn’t bother him. Better they think him terrifying than know he was disgusting. Better they noticed his barely-controlled brutality than notice Bishop smiling smugly at him.

There was one person who noticed something was off, and for what was probably the thousandth time, Bucky found himself thanking the powers-that-be that Steve was not here with him. Steve would know something was wrong as soon as he laid eyes on him. He appeared to be figuring it out even half a continent away, if his most recent letter was anything to go by.

_Buck,_

_Been a while since I heard from you. Know you’re busy, getting ready to save the world and all that. Just wanted to say hi._

_Steve_

He had a stack of unanswered letters from Steve. He’d received nearly one a week, but they’d grown progressively shorter every time Bucky didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say. There were things he’d already said a dozen times. _Dear Steve, my entire body aches and the food sucks._ There were things he could never tell him. _Dear Steve, Bishop won’t leave me alone, but don’t worry. I’ve grown used to the taste._ But he could feel Steve’s hurt and confusion in the terse note. He could practically see Steve pacing with worry, wondering if something had happened.

Bucky couldn’t do his best friend like that. Finally, the night came when tossing and turning on his lumpy bed, surrounded by snoring men, became too much. He got up, retrieved a notebook and pencil from the trunk at the foot of his bed, and silently slipped out of C Company’s dorm.

He went to the mess hall. The lights flickered on, revealing rows of rickety tables and benches practically shining from the scrubbing they received on a daily basis. With a heavy sigh, he sat down, opened his notebook, and began to write.

_Steve,_ it started. _Hope you’ve kept your punk ass out of trouble. And I really hope you haven’t tried to enlist again. This isn’t a place you want to be, pal, trust me._

No, that wouldn’t work. Steve would see right through that and know something was wrong. He ripped out the paper, crumpled it in his fist, and tried again.

_Steve,_

_I hope I get deployed soon. Europe and bullets will be a welcome change, and hey, if I happen to catch one of those bullets, it’d probably be an improvement on my current situation._

No, no, no. He was a soldier writing to his best friend, not a 12-year-old girl writing her angst out in her diary. Try again.

_Steve,_

_Remember that girl Sister Marianna told us to stay away from? The Irish one. What was her name? Fiona? You should ask her out sometime._

“Who’s Steve?” Bishop’s voice was right in his ear, his hot breath sending shivers down Bucky’s spine.

Unable to control his reaction, he jerked away, scooting down the bench so Bishop was no longer directly behind him. A mixture of adrenaline and fear sparked up and down his limbs. He hadn’t heard him come in. As Bucky glared, Bishop raised an eyebrow that silently said, _I asked you a question, soldier_.

“A friend,” he answered.

Bishop let out a low whistle. “A friend… is that what you fairies call it?”

“Just a friend,” Bucky said, his words short and clipped.

Bishop held up his hands as if to say, _all right, fine, if you say so._ “You’re up late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He slammed the notebook closed and moved to stand, but Bishop’s wide, strong hands clamped down on his shoulders and pushed him back down. Bucky’s heart began pounding in earnest now, blood roaring in his years. Bishop hadn’t fucked him, not since that first time. He’d always been satisfied with Bucky’s _sweet mouth_. But Bishop’s hands on his shoulders, the press of his hot body against his back, told him he had something else in mind tonight.

What would he do? Bucky wondered idly. Bend him over a table and fuck him probably, and then smirk the next morning when he sat in the same spot and bullshitted with Jenkins and the rest over runny eggs.

“We can’t have that,” Bishop said. His iron grip softened slightly and he began to rub some of the tension out of Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky eased into the touch for a moment. He’d always carried his stress in his shoulders and he’d been under an inordinate amount of stress lately. He realized what he was doing as a tiny moan escaped his lips. Bishop chuckled in his ear and his hands slid lower.

Bucky couldn’t breathe, couldn’t unstick his throat to make a sound. But, he supposed, he couldn’t do a lot of things lately. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t write his best friend a goddamn letter.

He couldn’t do this either. Not anymore.

“Get off me,” he snarled. The suddenness of his movements took Bishop by surprise and Bucky actually succeeded in twisting out of his grip. He stumbled to his feet and looked at Bishop in time to see the surprise on his face morph into cold fury. “You’re not going to touch me again.” His chest was heaving, out of breath like he’d just followed Snow on one of his runs.

Bishop snorted. “Not this again. Are you feeling neglected? Is that it?” He stepped closer and reached for him. “Does your ass feel empty without my cock in it?”

They’d been learning hand-to-hand combat lately, and his body reacted without direct instructions from his brain. He grabbed Bishop’s wrist and yanked, pulling him off balance. A kick to the knee and a twist of the arm later, he had Bishop bent over and face-down on the table, one hand pressing down on the scruff of his neck and the other twisting Bishop’s arm behind his back.

“I said, don’t touch me,” Bucky hissed.

If Bishop was intimidated by the sudden violence or vitriol in Bucky’s voice, he didn’t show it. He laughed breathlessly. “You want to fuck my ass, is that it? Want me to stay face down so you can pretend I’m _Steve_?”

Bucky let go as if he’d been burnt.

Bishop stood and straightened his clothes slowly, deliberately. He wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. It had split when Bucky slammed his face into the table. “You’re gonna have to work hard to make this up to me,” he said. “Striking a superior officer is no joke.”

“Do it,” Bucky said. “Report me.”

Call him weak, call him a coward, a failure. But he’d been sitting here writing a letter to his friend, confessing that he wanted to just die already, and he couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe some tiny part of him did wish Steve were here… Bucky had been a fighter his whole life, but Steve had always been the one to get back up every time he got hit. Didn’t take much to make Bucky want to lie down and stay there, apparently.

“Report me, and I’ll make a report of my own,” he continued when Bishop blinked in surprise. “I’ll be the one kicked out, but there’ll be a stain on your name forever _and_ you won’t have your plaything anymore.”

Bucky could run away—he wouldn’t have to worry about the look on Steve’s face if he never saw him again. He wouldn’t have to answer his father’s questions if he never went back to Brooklyn. He’d always wanted to go to California, anyway.

“Have it your way,” Bishop said coolly. “Just know, next time you want me to fuck you, you’ll have to beg.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Whatever you say, Barnes,” he said with a shrug. There was a decidedly devious glint in his eyes, but he strolled out of the hall, leaving Bucky to slump against the table.

* * *

Bucky’s nerves were a jittery mess for days afterward. Every time he saw Snow approaching, he thought Bishop had filed his report and Snow was coming to question him. Every time he made eye contact with Bishop, he was afraid to see the nod and slight incline of his head—his signal for Bucky to follow him into a nearby broom closet, or to meet him behind the munitions building. Every time he saw Bishop speaking gregariously with someone, he imagined him regaling them descriptions of the noises Bucky made that first night, or descriptions of what he looked like on his knees, bleary-eyed and gasping, having just swallowed Bishop’s come.

But the days at Camp McCoy passed in the same exhausting frenzy as always—easier now that Bucky could focus on being faster and stronger than he had been the day before. Slowly, the knot of barbed-wire nerves in his chest began to relax. Most days he was too tired to let his mind drift to Bishop. When he did think of him, he had to wonder—was it really that easy? Tell him no and he’ll just… stop?

It was almost two weeks before he realized just how intensely he’d fucked up.

They were at the shooting range, practicing with some new type of rifle Uncle Sam was trying to decide if they wanted to buy. It was clunky and terribly balanced. The bolt kept sticking. Everyone was struggling if the near-constant stream of muttered curses were anything to go by. Bucky managed to squeeze out a few good shots, but he was one of the few who could.

A bombastic, mustachioed man named Dugan was on his left. He let out a low whistle in appreciation of the tight grouping Bucky had going on his target. “Nice shot, Barnes, but I prefer to spread that shit out—make those Krauts look like swiss cheese.” He nodded at his own target, peppered with an inconsistent smattering of holes, and Bucky laughed.

On his right was Jenkins, the bulky rifle ungainly in his twiggy arms. He squinted down the sights and bit his lip in concentration. He fired and the gun bucked against him, nearly toppling him over backward. Bucky caught his arm and helped steady him, only allowing himself to laugh when he saw Jenkins was already laughing at himself.

“Don’t spread your feet so wide,” Bucky said, showing him something close to his boxing stance. “Gotta brace yourself like you’re about to get socked in the face.”

“Having trouble, Jenkins?”

Bucky considered it something of a miracle that he didn’t flinch at the sound of Bishop’s voice.

“Yes, sir,” Jenkins said with a self-deprecating smile. “This rifle might be too much gun for me, sir.”

Bucky stepped away and worked on reloading his own rifle as he and Bishop steadfastly ignored each other.

“Nonsense, soldier, you just need a teacher.” He placed his hands on Jenkins’ shoulders and turned him toward the line of targets, some 30 feet away. “Now, let’s fix that stance.”

A slow shiver was working its way up the back of Bucky’s neck as he listened to Bishop and Jenkins. He had to force himself to focus on his fingers, but he couldn’t help sneaking glances at the two of them. He saw what others would have seen, had anyone been watching his own interactions with Bishop when he first arrived at Camp McCoy: the frown of concentration on Jenkins’ face, Bishop’s hands lingering on his shoulders, on his hips as he adjusted Jenkins’ stance, Jenkins’ open and frank desire to please his commanding officer.

The bolt was stuck again, and Bucky swore under his breath as he worked it loose. It took longer than usual. His fingers were trembling. Beside him, Jenkins managed to hit the target and not fall over in the process. Bucky risked a glance at Bishop. The smile on his face was for Jenkins and was not proud, but predatory.

_Shit._

Bishop stuck around for a few more minutes, fixing the problems he saw with Jenkins and never so much as glancing at Bucky. Was this a show for his benefit? Was Bishop saying, “You turned me down, so now I’ll go after your friend…?” Was he moving onto his next target? Or was he simply doing his job, working to turn fresh meat into a soldier?

Bishop moved on eventually, working on down the line, correcting and encouraging as he went.

Jenkins and Dugan chattered away obliviously on either side of him, their sentences punctuated by the thunder of gunfire.

* * *

Bucky’s instincts went from Mother Hen to Mama Bear. Everything Jenkins did, he did under Bucky’s watchful eye. They rarely had time to themselves, so it was relatively easy to stay glued to Jenkins’ side. Bishop, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He continued on like he always had: easy familiarity with his troops, a demeanor akin to an indulgent uncle while Snow was all discipline and business. And if Bishop had moved his attentions from Bucky to Jenkins, it was because Bucky was excelling and Jenkins needed his help. The only hint that something was even remotely off came on late, calm nights when Jenkins should have been alone. More than once, Bucky saw Bishop come around a corner or enter a room only to turn around and leave when he saw Bucky was there.

One night, a few days after Bucky first noticed Bishop’s new target, they had gotten a rare reprieve. There wasn’t much going on and therefore, Bucky had no legitimate reason to stick to Jenkins like white on rice. So Bucky rounded up a group of bored-looking guys, found a deck of cards so old you had to squint to tell the difference between a king and a queen, and started a game in the mess hall.

Paulson and Jenkins were arguing over the rules of blackjack—apparently, Oklahoma and Missouri had different rules—when Bishop walked in the door.

“Mind if I join you, boys?” he said, clapping Dugan on the shoulder and sliding onto the bench next to him.

Clark dealt him in as the others argued, and Bucky tried to sort through what was happening. Bishop was here in the same room as him. Jenkins was here too, but so were a handful of other men… He decided this was almost the best-case scenario. The only way he could be absolutely sure Bishop wasn’t hurting Jenkins was to be with at least one of them at all times. Jenkins was safe, Bucky was safe, and Bishop was just playing cards like anyone else. He could handle this.

Bucky had lost fourteen cigarettes betting and won six of them back by the time the conversation turned to the inevitable.

“Your turn, Jenkins!”

He just turned beet-red, smiled, and shook his head.

“Aah, I think that blonde bar-maid down in town is sweet on ya,” Dugan said. “Next time you get yourself a day pass…”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Jenkins said as he bet two more smokes. “Plus my girl back home would be mighty pissed if I stepped out on her.”

A chorus of _ooooohhhhh_ and then, “Fiery, huh?”

“I’d rather fight Nazis than face her fury,” Jenkins said. “She is a red-head after all.”

“How’s her ass?”

Jenkins shrugged and tried to hide a smile. “I’m more of a tits guy, myself.”

The shouts of delight bounced around the mess hall for what seemed like ages.

“What about you, Barnes?”

“Now if that blonde is sweet on anybody, it’s Barnes,” Jenkins said.

“They’re all sweet on Barnes,” Clark said with a wave of his hand. “He’s probably gotten more tail here than the rest of us combined.”

“I don’t know,” Bishop said. “I’m willing to bet he popped his cherry more recently than we think.”

That got another amused _oooohh_ out of those listening, and they all waited for Bucky to take the next shot in this bull-shitting, bull-roaring contest that had become something of a tradition. They were all so interested in whatever witty comeback he’d deliver that they missed the mean, knowing glint in Bishop’s eye.

By some miracle, Bucky didn’t blush, and when he spoke his voice was steady. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. But that blonde…” he paused for dramatic effect. “Her name is Clara, and the carpet matches the drapes.”

More shouts of delight. Her name was Clara, but Bucky had never seen her anywhere but delivering drinks to patrons. No one but Bishop seemed to doubt him. It didn’t surprise him really. People didn’t notice things that didn’t affect them directly. No one had noticed Bishop’s leers and lingering touches when they had been directed at Bucky, so no one noticed them now when they were directed at Jenkins.

No one but Bucky.

_How_ had no one noticed? Bucky wanted to rip his hair out and scream even as he laughed at Dugan’s story of Mayella and him in some barn. How could no one notice the monster in their midst, even as that monster was circling, hunting the one among them that most needed protection?

Bucky hadn’t noticed when he had been hunted, though. And he only noticed it now because he knew what happened when this particular monster caught his prey.

* * *

“Whatcha got there?” Dugan asked as he shoveled more beans into his mouth.

They were eating dinner— pork’n’beans with milk and hard, flat biscuits. Bucky was not looking forward to the flatulence to come, but the beans tasted pretty damn good, considering.

Jenkins held a small note in his hand, delivered to him by one of the aides. “Bishop wants to see me,” he said with a shrug. “Guess I shouldn’t keep the old man waiting.” He tossed back the rest of his milk and stood.

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky said, jumping to his feet before he’d really thought it through.

“It… doesn’t say anything about you…” Jenkins said, looking again at the note.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said, clapping him on the shoulder and steering him toward the door. “I’m bored and wanted to ask him some stuff anyway. I’ll come with you.”

If Jenkins thought this was strange, he didn’t say it. He merely gave Bucky a sidelong look and shrugged. They hurried to the barracks and down the hallway that led to the COs quarters. Bishop answered his door almost immediately after Jenkins knocked. He said, “Private Jenkins, thank you for coming,” even as he glared at Bucky. He stood back to let him in and tried to shut the door in Bucky’s face, but he was too slow. He stuck his foot out to prevent the door from closing and stared Bishop down.

“Barnes, you’re dismissed.”

“No, sir.”

Bishop literally did a double-take. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Jenkins staring at him with wide eyes.

“Dismissed means _leave_ , private.”

“Yes, sir, it does. I think I’ll wait for Jenkins though.”

“Jenkins.”

He snapped his attention back to Bishop.

“ _You_ are dismissed. Apparently Barnes is desperate for my attention.”

Jenkins wavered for a moment, realizing that something was happening but not knowing exactly what. He looked to Bucky, silently asking permission to run the hell away. Bucky nodded and with a jerky salute, Jenkins slid by him and left.

Bucky stepped into the room and Bishop closed the door behind him with a soft _click._ Then a blur of motion and pain bloomed across the right side of Bucky’s face. Bishop took advantage of his surprise, grabbed him around the throat, and slammed him into the wall so hard a picture frame fell from its nail, the glass shattering.

“You do not give orders here, Barnes. I do.”

It took Bucky a moment to clear his head, but when he did, he said, “You’re going to leave him alone.”

A knowing, infuriating smile spread across Bishop’s face. “Are you jealous of little Jenkins? Want me all to yourself, is that it?”

“No,” Bucky said, working hard to keep his voice flat with Bishop’s hands still at his throat. “But I’m not going to let you hurt him either.”

A short bark of laughter escaped him. “Hurt? Is that what you call it? Was I hurting you every time you got hard while sucking my cock?”

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Buck said, not taking the bait. He shoved Bishop again, but he held tight.

“You enjoyed my attentions, didn’t you? How do you know Jenkins won’t like it too?” Bishop asked. “You can’t keep me all to yourself, you know. Any moment you’re not on your knees in front of me is a moment Jenkins could be there instead.”

And all at once, Bucky realized he’d been played. Reports were all well and good when he was the only one facing the repercussions. Bucky had resigned himself to the idea of a dishonorable discharge and running away to California to hide his shame. Jenkins was another story—Jenkins with his fiery red-head waiting for him at home had not made that choice. Bishop was right, of course. He couldn’t stay glued to Jenkins, not forever. Even if he could, what was to stop Bishop from merely switching targets again? The only way he could know for sure that Bishop wasn’t preying on someone else was to give him what he wanted.

In the end, it was an easy choice. He was already ruined. The least he could do was contain the filth.

The realization must have shown on his face because Bishop smiled. It was a toothy smile, shark-like in its sharpness and threats. His hands released Bucky’s throat. One of them trailed down his chest while the other curled gently to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Bucky closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, determined to just grit his teeth and bear it. Bishop’s hand roamed lower to rub his uninterested cock through his pants.

“Tell me what you want, Barnes,” Bishop said, his voice low, breath hot against his ear.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide the shiver that ran through him. It didn’t matter; Bishop had already won.

“C’mon, Barnes,” Bishop said when he remained silent. “You know what you have to do.”

_Next time you want me to fuck you, you’ll have to beg_.

God damn him.

It took him several tries to unstick his throat. “Please…” he said.

“Open your eyes and look at me.”

He did, expecting to see Bishop gloating, reveling in Bucky’s humiliation and turmoil. But all he saw in Bishop’s pale eyes was hunger. He faltered for a moment in the face of it. _Just do it_ , he thought. Like ripping off a band-aid or jumping into a pool of cold water, don’t think, don’t hesitate, just do it.

“Please fuck me.” It was barely a whisper.

Bishop’s breath caught in his throat and his pupils widened as he pulled him away from the wall and spun them around, pushing Bucky toward the bed. “Keep going,” he said.

Bucky once again found that he didn’t have the words to describe what was happening to him, what was going to happen to him. He searched his mind, trying to remember all the filth that had poured out of Bishop’s mouth when they were together so he could repeat it now. “I… I want to suck your cock. Please,” he added when Bishop arched an eyebrow. “Please let me… let me taste it.”

“Hmm.” Bishop pulled back. “Take off your clothes and tell me what else you want.”

It was a strange pride that coursed through him when he was able to unbutton his shirt without his hands trembling. His skin did crawl though. Other than that first night, he hadn’t been naked in front of Bishop, and even then he’d been too far gone to pay much heed while Bishop stripped him. Now, though…

Focus on the buttons.

“I want you to fuck my throat. Please, let me swallow your come.” His shirt hit the floor, followed quickly by his undershirt. His boots and belt came next.

“Just your throat?” Bishop asked, sounding a bit out of breath.

“I…” he faltered for a moment while his hands struggled to unfasten his pants. “I need you in my ass, please, sir.” Pants and shorts came off in one quick motion. Bishop had told him to take off his clothes, not give him a show. Naked now, he stood stock-still in the middle of the room, staring resolutely at the floor.

“Lie down on your back,” Bishop said softly.

Bucky did and remained stiff as a board on the bed. Determined to ignore whatever sick pleasure Bishop was getting out of this, his eyes moved from floor to ceiling.

“Spread your legs…that’s a good whore. Now touch yourself.”

Bucky hesitated once again. This one thing, he thought he’d be able to control. He wasn’t drugged this time, he was in control of his own body, and he’d been determined to prove Bishop wrong, to prove that he didn’t enjoy what was happening to him.

But Bishop had seen through him, of course, and as Bucky began to stroke himself he realized that his cock didn’t give a damn about his pride. He let his eyes drift closed while his hand worked, and he grew hard even as the sounds of Bishop stripping reached his ears and dread filled him. For all the violence of the last few minutes, Bucky was prepared for this to be brutal and painful. Bishop had a lesson to teach him, after all.

But even in this, Bucky could not anticipate his actions.

He felt the bed dip as Bishop knelt between his legs. “Such a good slut, Barnes, look at you. Hard and leaking at just the thought of my cock inside you.” He heard Bishop fumble with something and then his fingers, slick with lube, slid down his taint to slowly circle his hole. It was a distraction and Bucky’s hand slowed. “Don’t stop now, Barnes, show me how bad you want it.”

Bucky wanted to ignore Bishop and focus on his own hand, but it was impossible. Doubly so when his finger stopped circling and slipped inside him. One was quickly replaced by two and then Bishop took his time, massaging him, stretching him, fingers brushing that sweet spot inside him that made him gasp and buck his hips.

“Curling your toes like a goddamn woman,” Bishop said, laughter in his voice. “You’re so loose. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you let four or five men fuck you every night.” He took Bucky’s hands and pinned his wrists above his head all while his fingers kept working him open. “Open your eyes, Barnes. Look at me.”

He did. Bishop was inches from his face—mouth open, cheeks flushed, pupils wide with lust. He removed his fingers and shifted his weight slightly. Bucky didn’t have to look down to know what he was doing. Bishop paused, waiting for something.

And then Bucky remembered. “Please fuck me,” he said, breathless. When Bishop didn’t appear satisfied, he tried again. “Please, I—I need your cock inside me. I’m empty without it. Please…”

It didn’t hurt this time—there was no burn or uncomfortable stretch when Bishop pushed his cock inside him. If it hadn’t been for filth pouring out of Bishop’s mouth and the fact that Bucky was screaming on the inside, he almost could have called what they did that night _making love_.

“You’re lucky,” Bishop said “ so lucky I’m the one who found you, Barnes.” One of his hands scrabbled at Bucky’s knees and he took the hint, wrapping his legs around Bishop’s waist as he fucked him, slowly, inexorably, each thrust and retreat dragging against that magical place that only Bishop had ever found. “Can you imagine what the others would have done if they’d been the ones discover how hungry your ass is? Can you imagine the looks on their faces if they were to walk in on us right now and see your dick hard and needy while another man fucked you like a woman?”

Gentle, still so gentle and slow and goddamn amazing. Bucky felt like he might throw up. At one point, Bishop leaned in close and he thought he was going to kiss him. Aborting that plan at the last second, Bishop ducked his head to nibble and kiss and bite down Bucky’s neck. He’d have marks there tomorrow, Bucky knew. For a while he was able to distract himself from Bishop by thinking of ways to keep those marks covered until he could make it to town, establish a reasonable alibi that he’d had a liaison with… what was her name… Clara?

After that, it was harder to ignore Bishop and his filth. His thrusts became faster. His hand wrapped around Bucky’s cock and stroked in time with his thrusts. A few more seconds and Bishop came, his hot seed spurting deep inside. Bucky climaxed at around the same time. He wasn’t really sure. All he knew was that he’d come all over himself. Bishop scooped some of it up with his fingers, holding it out to him. Bucky closed his eyes and licked the fingers clean.

Bishop suddenly laughed. “Good god, Barnes, are you crying? Just like a damn woman. I was _gentle_ , wasn’t I?” he sneered. “I gave you what you asked for, didn’t I?”

Bucky touched a hand to his face and was startled to find it was wet. He wiped the tears away almost absentmindedly. After all, it was just more filth.

* * *

_Steve,_

_Sorry for the late reply. Just been busy. My whole body hurts like a bitch and the food is terrible. Not saving the world right now, just getting my ass kicked nearly every day. It’s not all bad though—met a guy here who reminds me of you. I do my best to keep him out of trouble._

_Do me a favor and try to only pick fights you know you can win._

_Write soon,_

_Buck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's judgemental thoughts on survivors of sexual assault are not my own.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! :)


End file.
